Page 62 of Fated in A Time of War

She doesn’t flinch. “He’s not Coalition. Not anymore.”

Anderson’s gaze finally moves, sliding over me like a knife meant to gut. He looks at my armor, scorched and scarred and bloodied. At the case strapped to my back. Then, finally, into my eyes.

“You a soldier?” His voice is gravel and heat. Not angry. Just… tired.

I don’t look away.

“Not anymore.”

That does it.

His chin drops, just a fraction. The faintest nod. Like a priest accepting a confession.

I unclip the case, my hands slow and steady, and hold it out to him like it’s something sacred.

Anderson takes it with both hands. His fingers—massive, callused, dark with grease—cradle it like he’s holding scripture. His eyes soften. Not much. Just enough.

“How many?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

“Three dozen doses,” I answer. “Concentrate. Uncut.”

That gets a real reaction. One of the guards exhales like they’ve been holding their breath for a year. Someone starts crying behind me—soft, muffled.

Anderson turns without another word and disappears into the bunker, the case tight against his chest.

The guards lower their weapons, slow and uncertain, like their muscles forgot how to work without tension.

Alice lets out a breath I didn’t realize she’d been holding. She turns to me, eyebrows lifting in the faintest hint of a smirk. “Told you he’d listen.”

I grunt. “Didn’t say anything about surviving the welcome party.”

Her smile flickers. Not amusement. Just something brittle and warm in the middle of all this ash.

A tall woman with an old Coalition med patch sewn into her jacket approaches us. “We’ve got a spot,” she says, jerking her head toward a smaller shelter. “You both look like you’ve been through a reactor leak.”

Alice nods. “He’s wounded.”

“I can see that.”

I don’t argue. Not because I need help—I don’t—but because arguing means standing here longer and my legs are starting to feel like hollow steel.

As we walk, a boy brushes past me—no more than six, limbs too thin, eyes too big. He stares at my side where the blood soaks through the wrap, then up at my face.

“Are you the monster?” he asks.

Alice freezes.

I crouch slightly, ignoring the spike of pain that rides my spine like a whip. My voice comes out low. Rough.

“No,” I say. “I’m the reason your medicine made it here.”

He blinks. Then nods once and runs off.

Alice watches him go, then glances at me.

I shrug. “Seemed like the right answer.”

Inside the camp, I become a ghost again.